


Biopsy

by jaradel



Series: Where It Started Between Us [3]
Category: August: Osage County (2013)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cousin Incest, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivy sets her jaw, trying so hard not to cry. She looks out the window at the vast prairie, and wonders if there’s any other way she can screw up today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biopsy

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the long wait! There's no smut in this one, but it's coming (ha) soon. Please forgive any medical inaccuracies in regards to the procedure, I am in no way a medical professional. I've spent my fair share of time in hospital waiting rooms over the last decade or so as next-of-kin, though.
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta, the lovely [GreyHattedGal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greyhattedgal)!

_June 2012_

                After four weeks of radiation treatments, the oncologist orders another biopsy. Charles accompanies Ivy to the appointment, just as he has to all of her treatments so far. At first the staff at the cancer center mistook Charles for Ivy’s husband, and more than a few eyebrows raised when Ivy told them he was her cousin. They are conscious not to hold hands or even look at each other for too long, but Ivy knows that two people in love give off a certain vibe even if they’re trying hard not to show it. Perhaps she should have let them think he was her husband after all. Eventually they grew accustomed to Charles’ constant presence by Ivy’s side, and one of the nurses even asked if Charles was “available”. Ivy just smiled, saying nothing.

                They arrive at the hospital an hour early to fill out the necessary paperwork, get Ivy signed in, and wait for her to be called back for the outpatient procedure. They take a seat in the waiting room, sparsely populated at this early hour. She’s nervous and can’t settle down; everything from the smell of the coffee wafting down the hall from the nearby café to the drone of the early morning news show on the television grates on her nerves. She wants desperately to hold Charles’ hand, but fears what it might look like in public, so she settles for fidgeting with her car keys to keep her hands busy.

                Charles’ hand comes to rest over hers. “What are you doing?” she whispers urgently, looking straight ahead.

                “Trying to help you calm down,” he whispers back. She sneaks a sidewise glance and notices he’s also looking straight ahead.

                “Our rule, Charles,” she hisses, dreading the loss of contact with him, but worried what people might think.

                “What’s wrong with one cousin comforting another?” he murmurs softly. Ivy pauses to consider this. Before their relationship took a decidedly non-familial turn, it wasn’t uncommon for them to touch hands, or nudge each other playfully, or even hug each other in public – why should that change? The only real difference now is kissing, so as long as they don’t do that, what’s the harm?

                Charles doesn’t wait for her to finish this line of thought. “C’mere,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and nudging her closer to him on the waiting room sofa. “Taking care of you is more important than what these people think. Let ‘em think what they want.”

                Ivy concedes, and molds herself to Charles’ side, resting her head on his chest in what has become a familiar arrangement over the last month. The constant _thud-thud_ of his heart in her ear is the perfect sedative for her anxiety, and the intermittent stroking of his fingertips along her arm and shoulder calm her frayed nerves. They sit like this for the better part of an hour, watching _Good Morning America_ as the waiting room slowly begins to fill up with more patients and families.

                “Ivy Weston,” a nurse calls from the desk.

                Ivy has nearly dozed off, and Charles shakes her shoulder gently. “Honey, it’s time,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear. Her eyes fly open and she sits up, extracting herself from Charles’ embrace and patting her hair down awkwardly. They stand and make their way to the nurses’ desk.

                “Alright, Miss Weston, this procedure should take approximately one hour, with a two hour recovery. You will need someone who can drive you home.”

                “I-I’ll drive her home, ma’am,” Charles stutters nervously.

                The nurse looks from Ivy to Charles quizzically. “Are you her-“

                “Cousin. He’s my cousin,” Ivy says quickly, stepping to the side to put a fractional bit of distance between her and Charles, but the extra couple of inches between them feels like an incalculable gulf, and she dares not look at him for fear of the hurt she’ll find there.

                “Right,” the nurse says slowly. “Well, as you are family, you can accompany Miss Weston back to the pre-op room if she wishes, and when we take her back to surgery you can wait out here until the procedure is finished.

                “Yes, ma’am,” Charles says. He looks at her. “Do you want me to come back with you, h- Ivy?”

                Ivy notices the near-slip, and it kills her to see Charles blushing in shame for nearly giving them away. “Yes,” she says firmly. He gives her a small, grateful smile, and the nurse leads them back to the pre-op room.

                The pre-op rooms are nothing more than windowless three-walled spaces with a curtain serving as both the fourth wall and the door. The nurse pushes the curtain back on cubicle number four and ushers Ivy inside. There is a hospital bed and a veneer wheeled cabinet with several drawers, a blood pressure / pulse-ox machine, and an uncomfortable-looking chair. Ivy walks in, but Charles stops just outside, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

                The nurse, all business, hands Ivy a hospital gown and a large square plastic bag with two handles, marked “Patient Belongings”. “Take everything off and change into this, please. You can put your belongings in this bag.” She walks out, leaving Ivy and Charles staring at each other.

                Charles breaks the suddenly uncomfortable silence. “I-I’ll just wait out here,” he stammers, backing out and pulling the curtain closed.

                Ivy sighs. She wouldn’t have cared if Charles stayed in here with her, though she would prefer that the first time he sees her naked is not in a hospital. She undresses quickly, folding her clothes and putting them into the bag, and pulls on the hospital gown, its pattern faded from repeated washings. She does her best to tie the ties in the back, but her nervous and shaking fingers have trouble staying steady enough to get the tie at her lower back. “Charles?”

                Charles pokes his head around the curtain. “Yeah?”

                Ivy gives him a faltering smile. “Could use some help,” she says awkwardly, holding the gown closed at her back.

                “Oh, right,” he says, ducking around the curtain and pulling it closed once again. He walks up behind her, his long fingers brushing her hand. She can feel his hands deftly tying the ties of the gown into a secure bow, and she lets go, but before she can turn around, she feels his hand stroke down her spine, as if smoothing the gown down her back. “There,” he murmurs. “Better?”

                Ivy turns around. “Much better,” she says. Charles smiles down at her, and she takes the moment of privacy to brush her lips against his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers.

                Charles reaches up and runs his large hands down her arms comfortingly, then backs away. Ivy sits on the bed, pulling the light blanket over her legs and up to her waist to preserve her modesty as Charles pulls back the curtain to let the nurse know that Ivy is ready. He sits in the chair by the room’s opening, looking uncomfortable, but he flashes her a reassuring grin.

                Ivy settles back against the pillows, willing her traitorous – and very empty – stomach to settle down. She fidgets with the coverlet as the nurse comes in to check her blood pressure and attach the pulse-ox meter to her finger. Then the doctor comes in and begins to review the necessary paperwork and the procedure. Ivy pays attention, but keeps stealing glances at Charles, who is determinedly not looking at her. His posture is stiff, as if on guard, but his hands betray his nervousness as he fiddles with the hem of the faded green short-sleeve button-down he’s wearing over a plain black t-shirt. Eventually the doctor and the nurse leave again, telling her that they will come get her shortly. Ivy breathes a sigh of relief.

                “Charles,” she says.

                Charles looks up, almost startled, and her heart breaks to see the worry lines creasing his forehead. Wordlessly she pats the empty space on the bed next to her legs, and he unfolds himself from the chair, shuffling over to her with a questioning look. She inclines her head toward the spot on the bed and he sits down. Ivy reaches out for his hand, and Charles smiles weakly as he laces their fingers together.

                “What about our rule?” he says, keeping his voice low.

                “Just one cousin comforting another, right?” she replies.

                “Not sure who’s comforting who right now,” he says, and Ivy chuckles.

                “Maybe we’re comforting each other,” she answers, and Charles nods, looking away. “Hey, it’s just a biopsy. It’s not invasive surgery, I’ll just be a little sore and tired afterward is all.”

                “Do you want me to stay with you, after?” he asks tentatively.

                “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she demurs.

                “I want to,” Charles says quickly, his pale blue eyes locking on hers. “I told you, I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

                Ivy squeezes his fingers. “Okay then.”

                They sit in silence, still holding hands, listening to the whirr of medical machinery and the analog clock on the wall ticking down the seconds and minutes. The longer they wait, the more nervous Ivy becomes, but Charles is a steadying presence, and their linked hands helps to calm her, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on the back of her hand.

                It feels like they’ve been waiting for hours, but it’s only twenty minutes later when the nurse returns with two orderlies. Ivy and Charles drop their hands quickly, and Charles moves off the bed, over to the wall. The nurse hands Charles the bag containing Ivy’s clothes, and he accepts it with a sort of reverence. The orderlies disengage the brakes on the bed, and Ivy locks eyes with Charles. She’s scared – not because of the procedure, but because of the potential outcome – and she can tell by Charles’ returning gaze that he understands. He steps up quickly before they wheel her out and squeezes her hand briefly. “I’ll be here when you get back,” he says.

                “See you soon,” she replies, laying her head against the pillows as the orderlies wheel the bed down the corridor.

                “You’re so lucky to have a cousin like him lookin’ out for you,” the nurse remarks. “Grew up together, did ya?”

                “Yes,” Ivy whispers, closing her eyes. She wants nothing more than to tell the world that she loves Charles, but she knows she can’t. No one will ever understand their bond. She presses her lips together, holding in the words she cannot say.

               

* * *

 

 

                An hour later they wheel her back to the recovery room. They gave her a local anesthetic, but she was awake for the procedure, and now she feels mentally as well as physically exhausted. The nurse gets her situated in the bed and hooked up to the monitors, then turns to leave. "Wait," Ivy calls out, sitting up and wincing at her sudden movement. "Where’s Charles?” 

                “Who?”

                Ivy blows out her breath in frustration; this is not the same nurse who was with her earlier. “My cousin, Charles Aiken. He’s my next-of-kin.”

                “Oh, well I expect he’s still in the waiting room.”

                “When can I see him?”

                The nurse gives Ivy an odd look; Ivy holds her gaze coolly, refusing to rise to the bait. “We usually only let immediate family – spouses, parents, adult children – in the recovery rooms,” the nurse dithers.

                “He _is_ my immediate family, he’s the closest family I have,” Ivy says, giving the lie conviction. It’s true, from a certain point of view; she’s closer to Charles than her parents or siblings, even before….well, before.

                The nurse relents. “I’ll send him back,” she says as she walks out of the room. Ivy settles back against the pillows, shifting uncomfortably as the anesthetic wears off. She keeps her eyes fixed on the door to the room, and sighs in relief when she hears Charles’ loping stride coming down the hall. And then he’s there, all six feet of him, in the doorway.

                “Charles,” she says tiredly.

                Charles sets her bag of belongings down on one of the two chairs, and pulls the other over to her bedside. He sits down and reaches for her free hand, the one not adorned with an IV, and cups it gently between his two. “How’re you feeling?” he says, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.

                “Sore. Worn out. Better, now that you’re here.”

                Charles lets out a soft laugh. “I dunno what you said to that nurse, but she looked none too pleased to be sending me back here.”

                “I told her you were my next of kin, and the closest family I have,” Ivy replied.

                Charles smiles, but it falters. “I wish I could be more.”

                “Oh Charles, you are, you are so much more,” she says. Charles doesn't look convinced, and Ivy wants nothing more than to kiss away the lost look on his face. She will, she promises herself, as soon as they can be alone, without prying eyes and nosy nurses.

                Charles reaches over and brushes a tendril of hair off of Ivy’s forehead. “Rest, honey. We can talk more when we get out of here.”

               

* * *

 

 

                They end up staying at the hospital for three hours because Ivy’s blood pressure was abnormally low; a side effect of the anesthetic and a touch of anemia. Charles leaves the room to allow Ivy to get dressed in private. The exhaustion hasn't abated; if anything, Ivy feels worse than she did after the procedure was over, and her patience with everyone has evaporated.

                “That’s to be expected,” the nurse says, handing Ivy a clipboard of papers. Ivy signs them and hands them back, and the nurse gives her post-op instructions, with a prescription for Tylenol-3. “Make sure you get plenty of rest, and take the Tylenol if you feel you need it. No heavy lifting. Should feel good as new in a few days, but call your doctor if you’re still in pain after 48 hours.”

                Ivy nods and puts her copies of the discharge papers and the prescription in her purse. She’s not thinking that far into the future; she’s only thinking of crawling into bed when she gets home. After a trip to the hospital pharmacy that takes far longer than it should to dispense a measly ten pills, they are ready to leave. Charles takes Ivy’s keys and brings the car around to the entrance. He bounds out of the car and around to the passenger side to open Ivy’s door for her, which should be endearing, but in her frazzled state it just makes her feel cross. She gets into the car without a word, drumming her fingers on her knee impatiently as she waits for Charles to get in and start the drive back to her apartment in Pawhuska.

                Charles doesn't drive all that often, since he technically doesn't have a license. Uncle Charlie taught him how to drive, but he failed the behind-the-wheel test, and Aunt Mattie Fae laughed at him – _laughed at him_ – for failing it. After that, he never tried again. Over the years he’s had more practice, but he still refuses to re-test, and Ivy is positive that it’s because he’s ashamed to be so old and still not have a license. Unfortunately, the side effect of Charles not driving that often is that he drives like an old lady – in the far right lane and five miles below the speed limit – and it saps what little of Ivy’s patience remains.

                “I’d like to get home before Christmas, if that’s alright with you,” she snaps.

                Charles looks straight ahead, white-knuckling the wheel, his mouth set in a firm line. Ivy feels the car accelerate slightly, but he says nothing. She turns away, staring out her window, watching the city slowly recede and the plains take over. The tension in the car is so thick it’s suffocating, and she wants OUT.

                It’s another ten minutes before Charles finally breaks the ice. “Wanna tell me what’s got you so pissed off?” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice Ivy’s not accustomed to hearing. Were she in a different frame of mind, she might have recognized what it meant, but right now she plows ahead.

                “Oh, I don’t know. I've just had a long needle stuck up inside me and wiggled around a bit for good measure, to find out if the four weeks of treatments I’ve gone through have had any effect, and at the end of it all I might have to have invasive surgery anyway. That good enough for you?” she bites out sarcastically.

                “You have every right to be upset—“ he starts, but she cuts him off.

                “Stop it Charles! Stop treating me like I’m damaged!” Ivy shouts.

                They had just turned off of US 75 onto state route 20, and Charles pulls the car over onto the shoulder, skidding to a halt in the gravel and slamming on the parking brake. He levels a glare at Ivy. “I am _not_ treating you like you’re damaged. I’m treating you like a person I care about an awful lot, who’s just been through a medical procedure and is sore and tired and just wants to go home and go to bed. I am doing what I can to make that happen. Now if you don’t want me to stay, just say so and I’ll take a bus back to Bartlesville, and you can call me when I don’t annoy you so much.” He doesn't wait for her to respond, just disengages the brake and pulls back onto the highway, continuing their trip home.

                Ivy is shamed into silence by Charles’ response. He’s never been one for shouting, but anyone who thinks he lacks a backbone is sorely mistaken; he just doesn't use it that much. Ivy and Charles have always been able to talk straight with each other, and strangely enough, his rebuke actually makes her feel better. He may be taking care of her, but he’s not going to coddle her. She reaches over and puts her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

                Charles covers her hand with his, wrapping his fingers around her palm and squeezing gently. “It’s okay, honey,” he sighs.

                “I’m just scared. And angry. And sad. And a whole bunch of other feelings I can’t even name right now.”

                “I know, and if I could take this cancer away from you I would, you know I would. But I can’t, so the only thing I know to do is to be here for you. So _let me_ be here for you. Don’t push me away. Talk to me, I promise I’ll just listen.”

                Ivy smiles, even as tears start to form in the corners of her eyes. “What else is there to say? I’m forty-three, never married, never had kids, and now I probably never will. I just… this isn't how I expected my life to go.”

                “You don’t know that you can’t have kids,” Charles points out. “You weren't on radiation that long, and—“

                “Charles. Even if the cancer’s gone and they don’t have to operate, I’m still forty-three. That’s already a high-risk pregnancy, assuming I can even conceive. And even if I _could_ conceive, there’s still the issue of a father.”

                Charles opens his mouth to respond, but then realization dawns and his mouth snaps shut, an embarrassed flush creeping across his cheeks. Ivy bites her lip, watching him and cursing herself inwardly for her insensitivity. Their relationship really hasn't gotten to that point yet, for reasons having nothing to do with their shared DNA. But Charles is still young – well, young-ish – and men don’t have the same insistent biological clock that women do. It occurs to Ivy then that maybe Charles _did_ want kids at some point, and is realizing now just what he’s given up to be with her.

                Charles clears his throat and stares straight ahead. “Right. Because – right.”

                “Charles—“

                He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “It’s okay, Ivy. We can go back to – to what we were before. I know we can’t have kids because of…” He turns his hand in the air, using the gesture to say what his words do not.

                “No! No, that’s not what I meant at all! Fuck, I should just stop talking.” Ivy sets her jaw, trying so hard not to cry. She looks out the window at the vast prairie, and wonders if there’s any other way she can screw up today.

                A few minutes later, they finally pull into the parking lot of Ivy’s apartment complex in Pawhuska. Charles shuts the car off and hands the keys to Ivy without a word. For a minute she thinks he’s going to just get out of the car and walk away, catch a bus to Bartlesville and wash his hands of her, but he doesn't move; he just sits in the driver’s seat, looking down at his hands. After several tense seconds, he finally speaks. “What do you want from me, Ivy?”

                The quietness of his words, and the smallness of his voice as he says them, makes her heart ache. “You. Just you.”

                “Even though we can never have kids? Will that be enough for you? Will _I_ be enough for you? Because if we keep going down this path I don’t think I’ll be able to turn back.”

                “Yes. I don’t need to have kids. I just want you.” Ivy looks at Charles then, holding his gaze. She's sore and tired, but this moment is more important than any physical discomfort. She knows that right now, they're making a choice - a commitment - together, and it couldn't be any more profound than if they were standing at the front of a church reciting marriage vows.

                A crooked grin finally crosses Charles' face, and he looks away, reaching for the door handle. The moment is gone, but in its place is a new feeling for Ivy - a reassuring feeling of peace and contentment. _It's going to be alright._

 

* * *

 

 

                Later that evening, tucked into her bed with a heating pad, a pile of pillows, a book and a glass of water, Ivy is feeling weary but more rested. Charles has been puttering around her apartment, doing dishes and laundry while she took a nap earlier in the day, and now she can hear him cooking supper in her kitchen. She settles in with her book, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, when there is a soft knock at her bedroom door. "Ivy?"

                Ivy smiles, setting aside the book. "Come in," she says. Charles opens the door, and on one large hand he is balancing a tray of food. He sets the tray down on Ivy's lap, and sits on the edge of the bed. There on the tray is a grilled cheese sandwich, cut on the diagonal, and a bowl of tomato soup.

                "I-it's not much, I know, I'm not a very good cook," Charles stammers, a blush rising on his cheeks.

                "I think it's wonderful," Ivy says. "These have always been my favorite foods when I wasn't feeling well."

                Charles rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture Ivy knows well from him. "I-I know," he says softly, but doesn't elaborate.

                It takes Ivy a minute, but she recalls the time when she had a bad case of the flu in high school. Violet had been on one of her pill-popping benders, and Charles - still gangly and short at the age of ten - had come over with Uncle Charlie to visit. Uncle Charlie and Daddy spent the day on the back porch, smoking and drinking and shooting the shit, while Charles sat with Ivy, taking care of his favorite cousin, and bringing her the only food he knew how to make: grilled cheese sandwiches and bowls of tomato soup.

                "I love you, Charles Aiken," Ivy says, barely above a whisper.

                Charles looks at her in astonishment, before a wide grin spreads across his face and he reaches for Ivy's hand. "I love you too, Ivy Weston."


End file.
